bare
spare
not enough
still too much
too neat.
Take my
soft warm bright
things
and leave me
with ash
-- let it dirty every last dead
lock of sweeping hair
-- grit my head into humility.
So
smeared with the
black dust of destruction
the burnt up world
on my face
smeared
as though into the ground
only thus tarnished
wiped
like a feeble bug
across pavement
entrails streaked and smoothed
--ego, pride, desperate amusement--
dry
do I find rest
in hints of clean soul
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